Sunday, January 24

attend opening? check.

Whereabouts, beeswax and books

Going to the openings of exhibitions I am in terrifies me. (Okay, maybe terrify is a teeny bit strong. But only a teeny.) Especially if Tim can't go cause he's working. Like Saturday night. Oh, the crowds, the small-talk, the crowds. Crowds are not my thing. But the people-watching makes it all worth it. Like the lady tonight who pushed by me, muttering, "I have to get a glass of wine." Or the memorable woman in the thigh-high slitted black dress and stilletos. And she wasn't young. I found a seat and watched people's shoes for a while. Two people tripped over a floor sculpture. A pair of black over-the-knee stilleto boots walked by. An elderly man plopped down next to me and stated that he couldn't find his wife. She finally showed up a few minutes later wearing a fabulous necklace and wanting her picture taken by her painting. He plodded off. A black sequin jacket walked by. A bunch more fabulous necklaces walked by. This went on for about an hour. Hundreds of people packed the room. I was kept very busy people-watching and sipping at my Pellegrino.

I finally had to go up to the podium and accept a prize for my sculpture. I left almost immediately after this, and as I was looking for my coat, I overheard someone say, "There were so many different ages of people accepting awards! That one girl was really young." Then I stepped out of the coatroom, wrestling my sweater on, and her friend (who looked about my age) looked at me and said, "Her!"

Now, I'm 32. And I get that all the time. (I last got it 6 days ago in my cooking class.) And it always surprises me. Oh, I know I'll love it when I'm old. But for now, I'm just surprised. I spent a lot of time, blood, sweat and tears to get to where and who I am now, and to have about a decade knocked off my age, well, it's kind of funny. It rather leaves me breathless. I admit I haven't decided whether it's a marvelous thing or a diss. I feel like I'm a happy 32 inside.

So it was on the tip of my tongue to blurt out, "I'm 32." But I smiled and murmured thank you, even though I really wanted to know how old she thought I was, and why. Is it my exceedingly youthful gait? My unwrinkled skin? (ha.) My slight chipmunk cheeks? (that's my guess.)

I may never know.

Here's to keeping up the mystery.